Hate and High Tides
by Dicta Lumen
Summary: As Azeroth attempts a return to peace after the Lich King's War, unexplained attacks occur on the high seas. Follow the leaders of each faction as they fight the breakout of another war. -Takes place after Lich King but before Cataclysm reviews welcome !
1. Chapter 1

**Hate and High Tides**

"Leave it to the Kirin Tor to send its most brash wizard to resolve sensitive inter-race relations," laughed Jaina Proudmoore, ruler of the Alliance port-city of Theramore in Kalimdor.

Before her, the famous mage with the fiery-mane and infamously fiery temper descended from the purple and gold draped zeppelin's rope ladder. A giant, golden eye with three similarly golden arrows pointed downward were well known markings of the Kirin Tor. Below the zeppelin, the beach's sole occupant stared directly into the eye, a slight breeze pulling the cloth from its anchored points. To Jaina, the Kirin Tor's symbol always reminded her of the path she might have chosen, perhaps, if an elven prince instead of a human one had been her choice. Now standing before her firmly on the shoreline, Rhonin turned to greet an honored peer and his friend in the magic community.

"Who better than one involved in his own inter-race relation?" the mage replied with a wide grin, referring to his elven wife of the Windrunner line. Choosing a mate among one's own race was difficult enough, but finding one among Azeroth's other populations had been a hundred times more so. It was not in Rhonin's favor that the race of his chosen companion believed the human race to be a breed of short-lived, short-sighted troublemakers. However, their union among at least his wife's family was eased by the union of her eldest sister with a human as well – albeit a pious paladin.

From above, a slim form sailed over the edge of the sky vessel, falling feet first toward the magical pair in a descent too smooth to not be calculated. With the grace befitting one of her kind, coupled with the deadly focus of the fabled elven rangers, Vereesa Windrunner landed easily next to her human mate. The elf was certainly a sight to behold and considered a beauty among all races. Pale, almost luminous hair fell past her shoulders; her battle-ready figure was flawless, as was the ruby stone necklace sitting lightly at the base of her neck. The leader of the Silver Covenant straightened, looping a thin, delicate arm through Rhonin's lightly muscled one.

"Do not let him fool you, Jaina." Vereesa's beautifully sun-blessed skin almost shimmered in the daylight. The sun's rays danced too over the waves of the Great Sea beyond the trio's meeting. Jaina looked lovingly into the tossing, blue peaks that had been the defining character of her home but quickly returned her attention to the happy couple. "When Rhonin heard of your missive, he quickly appointed himself to lead the task," the high elf finished, giving her husband a playful jab with her elbow.

"And as leader of the Kirin Tor, I believe it to be my duty. Though, a visit to the beautiful shores of Kalimdor may have held some sway over my decision." Rhonin winked. "It moreover goes without mentioning, but I'll mention it anyway, that the boys needed a break from Dalaran's busy streets and the even busier factions now calling Dalaran home. We can all benefit from this diversion."

The ruler of Theramore nodded in agreement; a tinge of sadness touched each face as they recalled the recent end of the Lich King's war. For Rhonin it meant the loss of many fallen comrades and a city under his control that was, at times, almost at war with itself. For Vereesa, the War of the Undead meant only death and destruction. Her home had been ravaged until unrecognizable; her family had been divided so irrevocably by a chasm too great to overcome. It all culminated in the heinous death of her sister, Sylvanas. If only her dear older sister's life had ended there. Yet, in the eyes of the daughter of Admiral Proudmoore the war was so much more than either death or diplomacy. Night after sleepless night she had wondered if she could have somehow, in some way perhaps, saved Arthas from becoming the monster peering out at the world with hatred from behind the Lich King's armor. Countless deaths lay at the former prince of Lordaeron's feet. Through her regret, Jaina traced all that had transpired back to her own doing. Arthas' disrespect and disregard for life forced Jaina to feel even more at fault for each being lost to him. But even when the nightmare of the Lich King had ended, Arthas' ex-lover was unable to let go of the weight of memories or her responsibility to the survivors of the Lich's wrath – nor was she completely assured that she wanted to do so.

The not far-off sound of splashing and children's laughter stole Jaina from her reverie. With eyes as blue as the Great Sea and a mouth that had found little reason to display positive emotion in the previous months, Jaina smiled at Giramar and Galadin. The twins- half-human, half-elf- ran along Theramore's beach, kicking water at one other every few paces and shouting for their parents to join them at the breaking waves.

"They've grown so quickly," Jaina marveled.

"To the human eye perhaps," Vereesa hugged her husband close to her, beaming with obvious pride, "but to my people they are barely adolescents."

The trio turned their full attention to the playing boys and enjoyed a small reprieve from current crises. As silence descended upon three of the most famous and powerful members of the Alliance, Vereesa took the opportunity to excuse herself and join her offspring in the sand. Making the trek to the beach, the high elf could not help but notice the emptiness of the neighboring beach and docks. This being a major trade port for the Alliance, she expected the area to be buzzing with the sounds of bartering and crewmen busy at work. Yet, save for Theramore's navy, the docks were all but abandoned. Men in full armor patrolled the barren docks, talking casually and attempting to hide their eagerness at having foreign dignitaries in their midst. Further up the beach, as if thinking with one mind Rhonin too wondered at the docks' desolation. It was likely that the war had been bad, even disastrous, for the businesses of the fishing boats that used the port. Perhaps the public were yet too apprehensive to enter the formerly dangerous waters. Turning from nautical woes and moving to matters at hand, Rhonin recounted the details of Jaina's situation – the parts of which he was aware.

In the past weeks, seemingly random Horde trade ships from Durotar and Booty Bay had been attacked in the Great Sea; as always pirates were the prime suspect, and for good reason. No war had managed to completely eradicate the presence of thieves on the high seas. Chances were, if someone had cargo of value, someone else was willing to take it from them. Yet when the ravaged ships were searched, none of the trade goods were missing. Soon, pirates began to complain at port of their own fleets being attacked, again no cargo was stolen. In fact, the only damage present, apart from the ships', was the mutilation of its crew. In each incident there were few survivors found. Those that managed to escape the attacks alive were nearly unscathed – apart from the scarring memories of the attack that each sea-hardened sailor suffered like a child awakened from a particularly terrifying nightmare. Of interest to the authorities was that the survivors' stories overlapped in a number of areas. All of the attacks occurred in the throes of storms in varying degrees. And, by some power of magic or natural stealth, the onslaught took place without any of the survivors recalling who the murderers had been, what they had looked like, or what vessel they had approached in.

"And I suppose you have called upon the Kirin Tor to investigate because the Horde suspects the Alliance, or members of the Alliance," Rhonin concluded. Nearly heartbroken by the recent detrimental turn of events so soon after the war, Jaina nodded. "Peace could not last forever, Jaina." He knew he should try to comfort her- the one person that had closer ties than any to the war and its origins- but Rhonin was a steadfast realist. He had to be. He commanded the largest collection of magic-wielders in Azeroth. Dalaran, the Kirin Tor, and his family could afford nothing less.

The blonde archmage pushed the hair from her face, blushing at having revealed her emotions so absent-mindedly. A cool wind had begun without her noticing, nonetheless she found it somehow comforting, despite this new weight on her shoulders.

"It is not a simple disruption of peace, Rhonin. I spoke with Thrall and many among his people suspect the night elves may be lashing out, perhaps trying to reclaim old lands. Now that the orcs numbers are diminished from war they believe their northern neighbors are sending a message in hopes of driving the other races out. It is not a thoughtless accusation, considering the night elves' general distaste for outsiders. And then, of course there are other, older hatreds with the orcs at the center…" Jaina's rebuttal trailed off, her face turned to the lightly salted wind coming in from the sea.

"The orcs and the draenei, the orcs and the humans, yes. Well, that actually relates to news that I was sent to bring to you."

She lifted a cautious brow, "News?"

"Alliance ships have been attacked in the Eastern Kingdoms as well, Jaina. And until I read your missive, I thought them isolated. The descriptions from the survivors are near identical, too similar to be considered random or without cause."

"Is there a race exempt from these attacks?" Theramore's ruler tentatively asked.

Rhonin waved a hand dismissively. "The Horde undead, but they have been receding into the mist for some time. No, I think the attackers may not belong to any alliance."

"Then someone who gains from the absence of peace, perhaps?"

"I believe that may lead us –"

"Rhonin! RHONIN!"

From the shore, Vereesa frantically called for her husband. With tears streaming down her flaxen face, the elf stood at the water's edge, pointing hysterically into the ocean. Few times before had Rhonin seen his wife so distraught – not even in the depths of Grim Batol, facing dragons of evil intent. She wept and pointed, then buried her face in her hands giving in to desolation, then wept and pointed to the ocean yet again, which looked no different to Rhonin save a few more vicious waves and a darker sky overhead than earlier when first his boys –

His boys! Giramar and Galadin had completely vanished from the shoreline and Rhonin could see no thrashing in the waters that might suggest a potential drowning or being pulled into the vast sea by a strong tide. Yet if that were the case, Vereesa could easily have handled the dilemma. She was, after all, a ferociously protective mother and respected high elf ranger. Still, at the moment she ran from one end of the shore to the other like a helpless young elekk separated from its parent. Breaking into a full sprint toward the shoreline, both mages considered their options and the rapidly deteriorating situation. Every second the twins did not resurface further cemented the chance that they would not be recovered alive.

Jaina stretched out with her arcane senses, scanning the area for any magical influences. Stretching out into the ocean, she sensed the myriad of creatures living beneath the waves. In an instant she searched the minds of each predator that might have taken the twins as a meal. None of the minds showed any trace of having approached Giramar or Galadin. Quite the opposite, most of the creatures fled aimlessly in a state of panic. In no mind could she reveal the source of the ocean's panic but each creature knew wholeheartedly that they felt it equally. Frantic and losing hope, Jaina prepared to mentally recede from the Great Sea when a small presence raced in and out of the farthest edges of her magical consciousness. The source was a paranormal one, but faint and fast-moving. Upon attempting to probe the matrix that obscured the beast and its mind, the archmage was instantly repelled by the evil taint the magic contained in a simple mental touch. She was not familiar with the evil but the mere proximity of her senses to it sent her stomach rolling.

"Rhonin," Jaina called for the Kirin Tor's leader. Rhonin forced his own magical senses toward her. Melding minds, Jaina directed her fellow mage's search toward the evil she sensed moving deeper into the Great Sea. In her peripheral vision, Jaina saw the red-haired mage physically recoil. Rhonin muttered an incantation, pushing the spell toward the evil while pulling at any presence around it. Jaina, aware of the attempt, added her own power to the spell's matrix, endeavoring to enforce Rhonin's magical ties to the evil force. But for all the power she poured into Rhonin, their efforts proved fruitless. Each second the force moved farther from the area of the combined mages' reach- quite a considerable distance- but Jaina was far from giving in. Whatever powered the force was obviously prepared for a magical attack. Jaina placed her hope that it had been over-confident in that decision.

During her years as Antonidas' student, Jaina had learned much in the nature of mages. Antonidas had admitted that even he had fallen victim to the wizard's greatest mistake: pride in one's work, zeal in a spell well-cast, and satisfaction that none could have done it better. It was in that flaw that Jaina decided to place her hope. Instead of attacking the force directly, she focused her attention on the struggling presence of Giramar. As a being embodying elements of the magic-infused high elves and the powerful influence of their wizard father running through the twin's veins, it was all too easy for Jaina to sense Giramar's innate magical talent – and then to use it as a vessel for her own substantial powers. In Giramar, Jaina found a spell's matrix already in place- likely created by Rhonin for the boy's protection. The spell protected Giramar from most physical damage that a playful youngster might encounter, be it skinned knees or bruised elbows. Adding a particularly fiery influence to his magic-gifted armor, Jaina superheated his skin until it was akin to that of the molten lava found in the belly of a black dragon. Giramar's molten armor did no harm to his body, but not so for his captor. Jaina felt through her mental link with the boy the sizzle of the being's skin. Instantly, the fiend released its hold on the scorching goods.

"Now, Rhonin!" Jaina cried.

"I have him," the mage replied through gritted teeth, beads of sweat forming on his brow. Speaking the ancient words of arcane magic, Rhonin cast a teleportation spell on his freed son. In seconds, the half-breed boy laid breathing heavily at his parents' feet.

Vereesa, free of her earlier inexplicable trance, knelt beside her son, throwing her arms around him. Oblivious of this reunion, Jaina and Rhonin had already refocused their thoughts on the fleeing creature shrouded by dark magic. Both mages knew the spell that saved Giramar would not again work to free Galadin. Any caster with the power to conceal itself so would learn and adapt in battle. However, Jaina was the most powerful female sorceress in all of the Alliance, and likely Azeroth, and was more than capable of recalling another spell to save Rhonin's son.

This time, instead of heating her target's skin to Hellfire Peninsula's temperatures, she cooled Galadin's until he was as cold as the tallest peaks of Icecrown. As his skin began to freeze, the water surrounding him followed suit. As the spell radiated outward from the boy, he became an increasingly heavy block of ice. This time, Rhonin needed no verbal alert and had his teleportation spell on his lips before the creature was fully forced to release its weighty captive. Sensing the growing futility of the capture, the organism readied itself to cast away the burden. The reaction came too late for the fiend. Ice raced up its arm as the surrounding water crystallized, securing it in the ice barrier surrounding Galadin. Consequently, both figures returned to the beach in a crash. The spell was meant to carry only one redirecting the speed with which the pair travelled into the speed with which they landed. Rhonin exhaled a sigh of relief and released his hold on the boy and the teleportation spell. The spell began to fade; the ice, no longer cooled by magical means, quickly succumbed to the sun and the mages' warming spells.

"By the light of the Sunwell," Vereesa exclaimed in revulsion.

On Theramore's glistening sandy beach, the seizing body of the most hideous sea creature Vereesa had ever seen fought for life. The creature was covered completely in varying shades of large, blue scales. The torso was humanoid, but extending from either end were things foreign to her. The head, draconic in appearance, was a fierce compilation of sharp teeth and slit eyes. Its spine stood erect from the body in pointed fins; two more protruded from the back of the hideous creature's arms, ending in webbed fingers and sharp claws. The lower half of the fiend's form was that of most sea-dwelling aggressors, a powerfully finned serpentine hind section. Without hesitation, Vereesa pounced upon the creature, longsword ready at its neck. Full of twisted teeth, the monster grinned wide.

"Don't make a move, sea vermin!" The ranger pressed sword against scale until a crack no wider than a sheet of parchment appeared in the scales beneath; thick, green liquid oozed from the laceration to its neck.

"Zin…" the creature spat, suddenly finding it difficult to breath. "Zinazsss-" Choking louder, the creature's skin turned a sallow yellow-green as if it had suddenly taken ill. The couple and Jaina – with the recent addition of the twins, who immediately clutched at the legs of their parents – stared helpless as the fiend fell deeper into its sickness. Near the center of its torso, cracks in the scales began to form giving the effect of a glass sculpture taking damage from a determined hammer. The cracks continued to grow, branching outward and down the body. Fighting for life, the beast struggled to hold itself together, literally, while the cracks quickly dried into yellowing quantities as frail as old parchment. With each piece of skin, bone, and unidentifiable organ that fell away from the withering body, the scent of rotting deviate fish pervaded the area. The body disintegrated into smaller and smaller fragments of deceased sea monster and the wind picked up once more, carrying the debris back to the ocean.

Rhonin, relieved to be rid of the murderous being, exhaled and wiped away the anxious perspiration collected on his brow.

"Some spell. A creation of your own?" The wizard looked to the female archmage.

"That wasn't me, Rhonin. I meant only to freeze the monstrosity and maybe question it. No," Jaina paused, hesitant of her revelation, "the last act of this _thing_ was self-inflicted."

Rhonin snorted. "Or inflicted from afar."

Both mages looked to the Great Sea, searching for answers that would not reveal themselves.

"And what of you, my warrior bride?" Rhonin fixed his gaze upon the high elf, confused. "I know you to be a fearless ranger, well prepared at land _and_ sea." He drew her close to him, wrapping his arms securely about her. Safe in his embrace, quiet tears fell once more from the elf's shining blue eyes.

"I… I don't know. It was… I couldn't… the water…" Steeling herself, Vereesa withdrew from her lover's arms and stepped back to directly face both powerful mages. "I have fought demons, battled scourge, and stood ground against dragons – black dragons. But never before have I sensed an evil as malicious as this." The mother eagerly spat into the sand. "The terrible bitterness of that dread encounter lingers yet on my tongue."

"You felt it as well? The wrongness of the magic?" Not being a caster in any form, Jaina was surprised at how strongly the Silver Covenant general sensed the foul magic. Yet, Jaina reminded herself, Vereesa's people were naturally attuned to magic; their souls were saturated with it. But the high elf's lack of magical training left her defenseless against curtailing the full force of the evil essence, whereas the archmages were able to taper their experience.

"Wrong indeed," the fiery-haired mage pondered. "But not entirely foreign to me." He thought for a moment. "Still, I cannot place it." Pulling at his beard furiously, the mage paced the shoreline. "Certainly an evil as potent as the putrid demons and as strong as that of fully matured black dragons."

Jaina considered the suggestion. "I'm not so sure of that. But, I have encountered creatures of this kind before, though not nearly so bathed in magic, or able to wield it so."

She recalled her time with the Mok'Nathal clan and its fierce warrior, the half-orc, half-ogre Rexxar. Their journey so long ago began much like the problem she was faced with now. The orcs suspected the Alliance of foul play and Jaina, determined as ever, started the expedition to set the record straight. Her victory over the sea witch, Lady Darkscale, and the resulting alliance created with her now dear friend, Thrall, could have made the memory a pleasant one – if not for the betrayal of her father associated with it. Or was the betrayal her own, against her father? The struggle played itself out innumerable times in her mind but always ended in the never-changing fact of her father's death.

"That was a _naga_," Jaina explained, burying the demise of her father deep in her mind, "a male one judging by his musculature and only the two arms."

"Then these creatures are likely the terror that has plagued the Great Sea's tides of late." Rhonin knelt beside the few remains of the naga, sifting through the ash for more evidence to his claim.

"It is likely. But from where do they come to attack? I'm afraid my knowledge of this race is limited to only a handful of encounters years in the past. I believed them extinct- through extermination or a naturally dwindling populace." Jaina colored. Being a supremely well-studied mage, it was not often that she did not have a ready answer, especially in situations where she faced an enemy already defeated by her hand. But wars had come quickly and she had not had time to study a detailed history of the naga, learning only how best to defeat them. The near loss of Rhonin's sons was a testament to her mistake. She should have known how to easily overcome the naga this time. That she failed in her intial attempts told her that either the sea-dwelling race had grown substantially more powerful or she had weakened through age and years of endless violence. She desperately hoped that the latter was untrue- though the former would make no better an alternative.

"In truth, I know even less. Where then should we begin? I doubt the scrolls of Dalaran hold many answers here."

"Darnassus. There lay our best chance of finding answers. The night elves' hatred of the naga is only rivaled by the latter for the former. Your relationship with the night elves may be of benefit to us here," she added. Hesitant to continue, the archmage smiled uneasily. "Your wife and children though, may not."

"I'll not be left behind," Vereesa countered heatedly. "I've done nothing to offend the kaldorei and neither have our sons."

"You may not have, but your ancestors most certainly did," Jaina tried in vain to explain. That Vereesa's people descended from the night elves, should have been known to all quel'dorei. Though, in their voracious pride, a few factors in their lineage may have been omitted. "The night elves are a long-lived race, they do not forget easily. Especially their leader, High Priestess Tyrande Whisperwind, who was present for the quel'dorei's betrayal."

"I care not for archaic rivalries. I –"

"She's right, Vereesa," Rhonin said calmly, uncharacteristic of the mage in a tense situation. "They may not accept us in your presence, despite my connection with their leaders, and this mystery we cannot afford to let go unsolved."

"Then let me aid you, Rhonin!" Vereesa pleaded, grabbing the archmage's hand in desperation. "Together we have accomplished much. Do not separate us now at so important a juncture. The twins will be well cared for by the hands of the Violet Citadel. _Please_," she added, her voice full of affection.

Rhonin looked to the ruler of Theramore for a decision. It would be her city's alliance with the elves, with whom they shared the continent, in jeopardy if things went badly. Jaina shifted her gaze between the elf and its mate. Their bond was strong and Jaina did not need even a fraction of her magical abilities to sense it. She recalled her previous bond with a lover – one so strong it had nearly blinded her to all else.

"Very well," the archmage conceded. "But we need to leave quickly. Time may be of the utmost essence here." Jaina began to recede toward her city. "I need to make arrangements. Excuse me."

Calling upon the oft-used teleportation spell, she sent herself to the small, scroll-filled room, high in a tower in Theramore's fortress, that she used both as an escape and for matters of state.

"We better ready the twins as well."

"Of course," Vereesa smiled wide. Filled with a desperate hope, she searched Rhonin's face for any clue that me might suspect the fear that coursed through her. It nearly paralyzed her simply recalling the events just passed. It was unnatural, disgraceful even, for a high elf ranger to be unable to act when necessary. But the voice… The horrible hissing voice dripped like acid in the back of her mind. Each drop chilled her spine, echoing insidiously throughout her body the same words time and time again.

_You belong to me. Mine! You will serve me once more, little elf._


	2. Chapter 2

_Thank you to everyone who read chapter 1! A special thanks to **WolfPaladin, Saviikins, and Emiliex **for the comments and **Gabbriel and Kronos274** for the fav'ing. _

_As always, the following characters, places, etc. are the property of Blizzard Entertainment and do not belong to me._

_Enjoy!_

_**Hate and High Tides **_

**_Chapter II_**

The ruler of Darnassus, of the ancient and stoic night elf race, paced her private quarters in the Moon Godess' temple – her every step filled with anxiety and stomach-wrenching fear. Surrounded by the opulence of the Temple, Tyrande preferred to keep her room as simple as custom would allow. The room was office, sitting room, and make-shift living quarters all in one. She rounded the desk, hidden under masses of scrolls to be read, signed, or catalogued, and turned toward the velvety green lounging chair at the room's far end. Pacing about in the near darkness of the room, favored by her race, Tyrande's heart raced.

For most of the younger races, and even many among her own kind, the answer to her frantic movement would have been easily understood had they known the true nature of the cowled figure in the farthest corner, barely touched by the sconces' dim light. For, though in his present form he preferred the moniker Krasus, he was much more than the simple elf-like humanoid he appeared to be. Krasus' eyes evinced wisdom beyond the mortal ages; the magic he wielded with ease would have easily killed many a caster who might try to repeat it. In an eerie manner, his pale skin was akin to that of a night elf that had passed and had been long buried deep in Teldrassil. Being a great dragon of the Life-Binder's brood, and consort to the mistress of the crimson flight, allowed Krasus to become the winged behemoth Korialstrasz at any time he chose and space allowed.

Yet it was not the dragon in disguise that currently stressed the High Priestess of Elune so. Nor was it the willingness of the love of her life, the great archdruid Malfurion Stormrage, to involve himself once more in the red's dire plans. She expected as much when first Krasus appeared out of nowhere and uninvited in her quarters. And though the three remained good friends and allies throughout the millennia, she knew too much of the nature of the leviathan to suspect him to simply drop in for casual conversation. Dragons, even the mortal-loving red flight, reveled in their seclusion from the lesser races. Her heart sank at the thought of the ill news Krasus must carry with him.

Tyrande set herself with all the grim and solitary determination- acquired from a life of conflict and global strife- that she could muster. She listened patiently, absorbing the news and composing the early stages of a plan to action. To be High Priestess was to be ready to do whatever might be necessary to protect the people, even at the expense of her own inclinations- a quiet home deep in the forests, a child. But the steadfastness she had set her mind to crumbled just as quickly as Krasus moved into further detail of the threat he perceived. With each word Tyrande's fierce spirit eroded until she was left with only fear and a preoccupation to pace about the room in silence.

The dragonmage's words filled her head, pushing thoughts of comfort and peace to the smallest recesses and leaving room for little else apart from the soul-chilling dread she still felt – even though some ten thousand years had passed. Krasus spoke of an evil from the seas come back to haunt the land-dwelling races. Unexplained murders, disappearances, and foul weather that materialized in an instant and evaporated just as quickly characterized the tempests that left merely carnage and destruction in their wake. These things Tyrande could have handled with an unwavering ease but Krasus continued still, a tone of disgust reaching his usually reserved demeanor.

"I have watched these events unfold for some time without the intention of intervening. However," the dragonmage paused, regaining control of his voice, "a far greater evil than I suspected has revealed itself. The naga are returned to the surface world. If there discovery was deliberate or by chance, I still don't know. "

"Naga!" Tyrande burst, her fear finally reaching its boiling point. "But how can you be sure? This kingdom and the Sentinels have a widespread network and I have yet to –"

"Tyrande," Malfurion interrupted, "Krasus has long been a respected friend and ally. I trust with all my being that what he says is true. The entire sphere of events is easily explained by their return."

The cowled form stepped forward, removing himself from the shadow of the corner. "Do not let your fear, as well-founded as it may be, distract you from your duty to your people, High Priestess." He knew his remark, though offhand in delivery, would wound the elf's pride even as she attempted to conceal it. As consort to Alexstrasza, the conservation of life on Azeroth was his paramount goal- through what means he achieved that end was still a matter of debate by some. Often charged with manipulation of the mortal races, by those races themselves and his own kind, Krasus recognized moments that called for tender-footing but he distinguished just as easily those that required the small sting that would inspire action.

It worked. The High Priestess blushed and quietly prayed to Elune for strength. She desperately wished the nightmares of her past to quit her conscience. Finding tranquility through Elune's influence had marked her as a talent among even the best priestesses, but she too had her moments of doubt- made worse by her battles with the Nightmare Lord in the Emerald Dream. The deity blessed her in turn with a quick answer, sending the images of tentacles and serpent-shrouded heads fleeing under the warm presence of the Mother Moon's assurance.

"Very well, Krasus. What do you propose we do?"

"I have traced the storms' trajectory. All are within easy travel of one location. Your search begins in Vashj'ir. A large force has, however unwillingly, revealed itself in the city. I have probed the area and find more than just naga present. This may explain the disappearances."

"I know my kingdom well, Krasus, and I believe the portion which you refer to is under water, rendered so by the Sundering, eons in the past."

The kaldorei capital, Suramar, was once a thriving city of the night elves' love for both their Mother Moon and the arcane magic that flowed through them as effortlessly as water down a fall. Surrounding the beautiful metropolis were smaller townships, such as Vashj'ir, home to many of the Highborne. At their highest, the night elves prided themselves on their contrivances – a virtue soon to be their vice. After invasion by hordes of ruthless Burning Legion demons and the following destruction of Azeroth, innumerable night elves lay dead and decaying. Soldiers and citizens alike watched in horror as the body of their allies, not lucky enough to remain deceased, had been revived through fel magic by the demonic necromancers and sent to battle their brethren. Such abominations and the brutality of that war had been the worst ever faced by the night elves- made worse by the betrayal of the race's own leadership, Queen Azshara's court and her highest councilor, Xavius. At the insurrection's end, the shining city of Suramar and much of the surrounding country lay far below the tides of the Great Sea, or had been for the past ten thousand years.

For centuries, the elves worked to restore their homes and find peace with the younger races, but the demons returned. Tyrande, full of a fool's impetuousness that she still punished herself for, had freed Illidan from the Barrows Deeps. But it was not long before the demon-elf returned to his old ways. Reports of Illidan's latest treachery reached the elves, and Maiev Shadowsong, blind with hate and rage, informed Tyrande that parts of the old kingdom had resurfaced by the work of an orc warlock. A second, more sinister revelation had also surfaced at the time; the Highborne housed in the Azshara's palace at the time of the Sundering had not met their dissolution at the bottom of the ocean. In death's place, they had found absolution. Forces as elemental as they were ancient altered the traitorous Highborne into creatures of revulsion doomed to the the oceans' depths but suited to thrive there. No longer the models of perfection and high society, they had become naga.

"I don't believe it was among the islands raised by Gul'dan," Tyrande finished, confident that the dragon was indeed mistaken.

Krasus nodded solemnly, a slight smile reached the edged lines of his mouth. Malfurion, quick to comprehend Krasus' purposed silence, moved to take Tyrande's hand in his and found her palm clammy. Alarmed, he studied her face, discovering that it was a shade paler than usual.

"I have some cherries from Draenor, cultivated from the land of Nagrand which may aid us in this instance, my love."

In reply, Tyrande only sighed. She had hoped against better judgment that the leviathan had been mistaken – however unlikely that seemed to be. She was fond of swimming as far as recreation went but the thought of battle in such a place… She was not altogether sure of her skills with a glaive in such an arena; and reliance on alien vegetation to sustain their breath under crushing leagues of water and pressure put her in worse spirits.

"When are we to leave?" she heard Malfurion ask of Krasus.

"Soon, to be sure. But not until the full party is present."

"Need there be more? Mal and I have done much in the past as only a pair. I see no reason to amend that now." Tyrande knew that to be untrue. Each of their journeys to save Azeroth had been aided by countless others, but the world was smaller then. To include so many on a mission to restore balance was likely to incite old hatreds between the factions- hatreds the world had no time to abate.

"_Ahem._"

In the doorway, a young priestess of the Light stood looking uncomfortably out of place, particularly among the night elves' most powerful duo. Tyrande spun on the acolyte but found the girl engaged in a low bow with eyes to the floor. She searched the room for the dragonmage but apparently the form did not wish to be seen.

"Yes, Taelyn?" she asked, gesturing for the girl to rise.

"Forgive me the intrusion, High Priestess, but the human ruler of Theramore, accompanied by a party of two, wish an audience with yourself and the leader of the Cenarion Circle."

"Jaina Proudmoore? Did she disclose on what business?"

"No, milady."

The acolyte fidgeted under the intense, questioning stare of her favored ruler.

"Send them in please, Taelyn."

"Right away, milady." The girl vanished from the doorway, in a hurry to please the High Priestess. Moments later Jaina, Rhonin, and a female quel'dorei appeared where moments before Taelyn had stood. Seeing the full party gathered, the dragonmage allowed the darkness of his corner to recede behind him.

"You will need talents outside your own to assure this journey's success," Krasus intoned knowingly. "Much depends upon the five of you."

"How did you –" Vereesa began but a sidelong glance from her husband silenced the question. She suspected this to be the figure of the Kirin Tor whom had brought Rhonin and herself together on their first mission before tearing them apart many times more with half-crazed objectives. Her husband spoke well of his former mentor, but always in guarded tones. The cowled form was, to Vereesa, clouded by secrets.

"You have a great deal to discuss before your departure, which I hope will be swift." Krasus' outline, already dimmed by the surrounding shadow, seemed to move deeper into the darkness as he spoke. "I have my own pursuits to attend to, which may prove parallel to yours in the end." His shadowy form, head bowed in deference, evaporated from sight –

– reappearing leagues away in a massive cave that stood mostly empty. Remaining in his elven form, the red alighted up a stairway formed from the cavern wall and placed himself on a modest throne. Formed from the cavern's stone, the throne blended seamlessly with the rocky floor. Settling heavily into the chair, he summoned glowing orbs from their hiding places in the rock wall. Each of the immaculate globes revealed an image of the present somewhere on Azeroth. From here, Krasus continued his search into what he believed to be the source of the terror from the Maelstrom. The dragon did not fool himself or consider the situation below his means of intervention. He sensed the enemy, the true enemy, might not directly act in any incident now plaguing the world. Rather, the enemy used a series of puppets and disjointed leadership to compel conflict. His adversary was too cunning, too practiced in its malice to attend to any destruction by its own hand- not until that last moment when deliverance was too late. Yet, Korialstrasz was ever determined to trace this evil back to its source.

The globe before him displayed a torrent of rain and lightning occurring over the Great Sea. But, with all his efforts focused, the mage could not penetrate the scene any further than the visual image the storm presented. The concealment was too familiar to be denied.

"Destruction, you are not unknown to me," Alexstrasza's prime consort remarked inwardly. "You cannot remain unseen by _me _Neltharion… _Deathwing._"


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: **Sorry for the long delay between updates but life, you know. This chapter is from the Forsaken pov. I have always imagined Sylvanas as the second biggest b***h in Azeroth (behind the original, Azshara), so that is how I wrote her. It's just my interpretation. I'm sure she has more that drives her than being rude, and that may be written into the story later, but at first introduction, she is as such. Enjoy!**

**Chapter III**

Within the blighted kingdom of Lordaeron, an inexplicable ever-damp topsoil soaked the ground's various layers until collecting just above the concrete that formed the canals of the Undercity. There, between cracks formed through years of erosion, the muddied water dripped steadily onto the sewer's occupants. One such occupant sat directly under a constant trickle; if she had still been able to access her senses, she may have ordered the crack sealed or her throne moved. And though she was unperturbed by the water, she was supremely angered by the individuals surrounding her. Their incessant bickering, made worse by the imperative topic of discussion, had driven her to a point of silent rage. However, she was no longer satisfied by silence and hidden fury; she wanted this discussion over, and quickly.

"Idiots!" She burst from her chair and stood to face each of the speakers at eye level. A stout, female dwarf—or what remained of the decaying undead body—readied herself to rebut the insult. "For Sunstrider's sake, Masjenal, remain quiet." She chose not to shout but did not prevent her voice from oozing all the natural malice she usually employed.

"Sylvanas, please." The Banshee Queen whirled on the speaker, Master Apothecary Faranell, but years of working in close proximity had largely inured him to her threatening nature. "I've tried everything. Anything Putress or Varimathras might have written has been destroyed or sequestered by the Kor'kron."

Snorting visibly, Sylvanas eased herself back onto her throne and commenced rapping her nails on the armrests. "I'm not interested in the work of those traitors, Faranell. What I want is for my incredibly moronic masters of the incompetent Royal Apothecary Society to remove their half-decayed heads from their—"

"Alright, alright," a long-dead half-elf interjected. "In Research and Development we have created as many potions, as well as attempted spells, as our materials allow." Master Apothecary Oni-jus looked to her peers for support. "We simply cannot recreate the work of the Nathrezim, and we can't raise individuals from death with so few test subjects."

Sylvanas rubbed her brow in frustration; she felt as if she had spent far too many days arguing this point. "Thrall demanded peace at the war's end," she said, releasing a sigh filled with annoyance directed at both the Horde and the apothecaries.

"But the Warchief is away, currently," Brightflame Masjenal noted, moving her small, dwarvish form closer to Windrunner.

"I'm aware, imbecile." The Dark Lady had not been completely filled in on the details of Thrall's hiatus but she did not mourn the orc's absence. She did however lament the elevation of Hellscream to the position. Garrosh was a fool—a dangerous and inexperienced one at that. "Ignoring official mandates will of course secure our position within the Horde. Please, Masjenal, do try to think before you speak."

Faranell clutched the hems of his sleeves, anxious about his next comment. "If we could inspect our own kind and work backwards from our condition to what causes it, we may be able to uncover its origins—even how to re-enact the spell. Of course, it may be necessary to dissect a few of the Forsaken—"

"Out of the question," Sylvanas replied before he could continue. "Our numbers are greatly reduced already. You three should be exploiting innumerable ends to increase our ranks. I'll not grant such a heinous request without so much as a shred of assured success."

The room fell silent—each too deep in thought, contemplating solutions to their race's problem. From her place near a corner of the throne room, where her Queen's temper was least likely to cause her harm, Oni-jus watched her sovereign intently. The Dark Lady had a talent for remaining as still as a statue while simultaneously radiating intense irritation at everyone around. Soon, her attention drifted to the tiny splashes occurring on Windrunner's arm. Looking to the ceiling for answers, she spied the crack that spawned the droplets. For reasons she could not yet pin down, the falling water stirred a memory.

"New Agamand!" Oni-jus rushed to the room's center, drawing the gaze of those around her. She hurried to continue the thought but excitement choked her voice. "Our outpost in Howling Fjord, Apothecary Dorne has returned reports from our soldiers on the continent. The Lich King—"

Sylvanas hissed, moving to the edge of her seat but refrained from interrupting. Mere mention of the barbarian generally elicited reactions from the former Ranger General that were rarely pleasant. With his death, she had worked to control such outbreaks. No longer could he ravage her homeland or people, and his death might have been a comfort if he had not already done those things.

"The Lich King employed Vrykul necromancers who relentlessly bolstered the Scourge's numbers. And in his current state, they remain…" The half-elf paused, searching for the right words, ones that would not upset the Forsaken Queen's delicate temperament. "…_unemployed_, as it were."

Seemingly interested, Sylvanas leaned back in her chair. Folding her legs, she considered the option. It would not be her first time employing previous enemies—though the results of that venture had proved poor.

Finally noticing the puddle on her armrest, she ran a finger through the pool. The cool water neither registered cold or wet with her, and it never would. Chagrin colored her emotions and she wiped the water wholly from her chair.

"What shall I call our new necromancers?"

The Apothecary Master smiled, glad to have reached a solution.

"My Queen, I believe they are called _val'kyr_."


End file.
